


There and Back Again

by lonewolfe



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War II, Destiel (sorta), Gen, Human Castiel, Paternal Bobby Singer, Poor Chuck, Unrequited Balthazar/Castiel, World War II
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-02
Updated: 2014-01-02
Packaged: 2018-01-07 04:03:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1115265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lonewolfe/pseuds/lonewolfe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's World War II and American forces are about to attempt to liberate Paris from Nazi forces. Part of these forces are Sergeant Dean Winchester's 76th Infantry Division. In it is Cas Novak, who lied about his age to serve in the war, Bobby Singer, the aged veteran who also served in World War I, Balt Thazar, a college student whose brother died earlier in the war, Chuck Shurley, a writer gathering research for a novel, as well as a few others. As they move through France, they witness horror and beauty, life and death. Soon, Dean and Cas soon forge an unbreakable bond. And despite their varying reasons for joining the fight, the 76th have only two goals: liberate Paris and make it back home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jessica Morgan](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Jessica+Morgan).



**"The loneliest moment in someone's life is when they are watching their whole world fall apart, and all they can do is stare blankly." - F. Scott Fitzgerald**

_August 17, 1944_

_“We will liberate Paris, if it's the last goddamn thing we do.”_

_“Sir, yes, sir!”_

_“We will fuck these Nazis straight to Hell.”_

_“Sir, yes, sir!”_

_“We will show the world why America should be feared. Can I get a fucking hoo-ah, gentlemen?”_

_“Hoo-ah, Sergeant!”_

_“I can't hear you!”_

_“HOO-AH, SERGEANT!”_

_These things I hear. They're meaningless. Propaganda, similar to the Nazis, yet different. But propaganda all the same. I can't stand it. War is not a game, it's not a joke; this is a lesson one has to learn through experience. And I have learned through experience. I've seen beautiful earth pocked marked with craters. Friends, men that have kept me alive through sheer torture have been decapitated, fucking pulled apart, right before my eyes. I've been stationed all over France. Different, yet the same. Two things remain constant. The holes in the earth and the dead. The dead litter every one of them, every single one._

_This is not how I was told war would be. I imagine it's not how anyone thought it'd be. Glorious, life-affirming, idealistic. What a joke. When I look back at who I was before I enlisted, it's like reading a boring story about someone you've never met. Useless. Unrelatable. Irrelevant._

_War changes men. That's what they don't tell you. I am not who I once was, never again will I be. I'm 20 years old and for the last two years, I haven't slept soundly once, haven't had a meal that wasn't just the mechanical motion of consuming food for energy. I can't be like Sergeant Winchester. I can't use humor to get through this. It seems insulting, but men cope how they will. Who am I to judge?_


	2. On the Day Before

Cas snaps his journal shut as Sergeant Winchester strides over.

“Private Novak. The fuck are you doing, writing in a journal? You writing home?”

Talking to Sergeant Winchester is the last thing Cas wants to do at the moment, but he doesn't have much of a choice.

“No, sir, just writing to write, sir.”

He stares at him deadpan, dragging on a cigarette. 

“Doesn't make much goddamn sense, but all right. Walk with me.”

Cas pushes himself off the ground, straightens his uniform, and lights a cigarette. He didn't always smoke. Despite what most people believe, he finds it to be common sense that inhaling smoke is unhealthy. But war changes men, and cigarettes help to calm the nerves. To some extent.

“Cas, can I be honest with you?” Sergeant Winchester asks, tipping his hat to a Major passing by.

“Of course, sir. I'd appreciate it if you were, sir.”

The clouds above Paris blanket the sky, casting a gray gloom on the camp. Cas likes the weather, finds it comforting. Boston autumns were like this; perpetually overcast; a wind that chills to the bone; it feels like home, or the closest thing to.

“You can drop the 'sir' shit, Private. Save that for higher ups.” Sergeant Winchester flicks his cigarette away. “I don't know how the hell we're going to save these Frenchmen. Patton's good, but I don't think he's this good. I think we're crawling into our death beds, tucking ourselves in.”

Cas remains silent, the words sinking in.

“Got anything to say there, Cas?”

“Well, Sergeant, I--”

“How many times do I have to tell you, son? I hate the formalities. It's like you're a sheep, baa-ing for me. I have a name, and it isn't Sergeant. _Save that shit for the higher ups._ ”

His harsh words serve only to silence Cas further. How does someone respond to something like that?

“Speak now, or forever hold your peace.”

“Well, Sergea—“ he starts. “Dean. I think all we can do is keep our guns loaded, our eyes peeled, and try our best to survive. It seems to have worked so far.”

Dean looks away and when he looks back, his eyes are granite stones, rock hard. He's looking at Cas, but not really. The memories of combat, of friends and family lost dance across his face almost visibly. He's been here since the beginning, a lot longer than Cas, and he's seen far worse. His brother—Sam? Cas can't seem to remember his name—was killed by a sniper's bullet less than a month ago. Dean was there when it happened, not five feet away. Cas wasn't there, but he hears enough from other soldiers. It took four men to stop him from running out right into the line of fire. They say Dean didn't stop screaming for an hour, then didn't speak for three weeks. He ate a bare minimum; refused to wash his uniform, coated in his brother's blood. He did nothing but smoke cigarettes, clean his rifle, and enter combat, all in silence. 

“Nothing's _worked_ , Cas,” Dean says. “We've just been lucky. Dumb luck. That's what keeps us alive, and sooner or later, it runs out. Then we die. If you think it's any different, I don't know what the fuck to do with you, I really don't.”

Dean looks at Cas a moment longer, as if about to say something, then turns on his heels and storms off. Light droplets of rain begin to fall, fading into a torrential storm. Cas has never been superstitious, but it's difficult not to see this as a foreboding sign.

Cas slips his journal into his jacket, starts for his tent, thinking again of home. He wishes with everything he has he could be there. But he's not done here. 

He has a long way to go before he's home.


End file.
